Don't kid yourself, Sir. Or do. It's all the same to me. Doesn't change the facts. You fancy yourself in control. Of your sub. Of your mind. Of your cock. Of your life. Even, perhaps, of me. You go looking for me. For someone like me. So you can insert yourself within the moist folds of my life, of the glimpses I give you of my life.
But, my horny reader. You're just the fish. And this time I'm the angler, dangling words and images on the end of my invisible line, casting them out into the waters of your search engine, until Google tosses you up on my shore.
I lick you. Those magic words are the tip of my tongue running up and down your pleading cock, barely touching at first, only teasing, only hinting, until I suck you in, take you all the way down, shove you between my cheek and my teeth, twirl my tongue around your swelling desperation, humming as I work, whispering the words you want, the words you need, the words you embroider into a dubious reality that you wish could be true, as you embellish my vignettes with visions of faces and tits and tight little pussies and even tighter little butt holes.
The words.
Like hand-tied flies,
never quite concealing the sharpened hook.
pussy
spanked pussy
caned pussy
flogged pussy
Daddy spanked his little girl's pussy.
You spanked her pussy, you spanked her cunt, you spanked her ass, you thrust your fingers inside her tortured orifice and found her hot and wet and tight and so red you could believe her pussy itself was blushing because she knows that the pain turns her on, not even a lot of pain, not even the action, just the words... like you it can be just the words... she can almost think herself into cumming... you can do it yourself, you know... just by whispering the words in her ear...
I need to hurt you, Baby.
I'm going to hurt you.
Bring me my belt, sweetheart.
Bring me the flogger.
Have the cane on the bed when I arrive.
I'm going to hurt you.
Or just the shift of your body.
I feel you raise your arm
as I'm bent over your cock,
serving your cock,
delighting your cock,
my ass up near your head,
I feel you raise your arm
and I know it's coming.
Your palm on my ass.
And by now I'm so deep into that place where you put me when you put your hand around my neck and push against my windpipe, just enough, not to stop my breathing but as a reminder, your hand as leather collar, reminding me I'm yours, reminding me of joy, flicking that little switch that always needs a little pain, a little force to take me to that place in which my face changes, my eyes change, and then I'm home.
I suck your cock.
I'm in that place.
You spank my ass.
You spank my pussy.
I'm so deep
I'm so high
I can tell you're hitting me hard
Yet barely register pain.
Please spank me, Daddy.
Please beat me.
Please whip me.
Please spank my pussy.
Please take your belt to my ass.
Please make me
moan
and whimper
and cry
and wriggle,
make me writhe and wriggle,
while you pinch my nipple
and your cock
jerks
at my gasp.
Well, that sure made me hot. How about you, Sir? Not the "You" who in reality got to spank me. You, dear reader, you don't get to spank me. Sorry, buster. You can pretend, though. No one can stop you from pretending. And I know this is what you want because you leave a trail of search words behind you. Pretty much the same ones all the time. So I sing the siren song of spanked pussies and draw you closer until you wreck on my shores.
At least I hope it helps you cum.
I do like to make men cum.
I like to see them lost in their pleasure.
And I like to feel them spurt.
To feel the action within their organs of which they are so proud.
Look how big I am.
Do you like a big cock?
I'm going to shove my big cock inside your little butt hole.
I'm going to make you scream.
You're going to suffer for me.
Is that what you'd like to be saying to me as you shove your swollen cock inside my pussy which is so damn hot because of how you tortured me first?
Think about.
That's your assignment.
Think about hurting me
spanking me
spanking my pussy
spanking my cunt
spanking my clit
whipping my ass with your belt
covering my ass with welts from your cane.
Then fucking me.
Hard.
Sodomizing me.
Using me.
Filling me.
Seizing my long red curls in your fist
And then cumming with a roar.
Like that?
I give you that as a gift.
And then I think of the man who loves me.
Who treasures me.
Who teaches me to treasure myself.
The man who didn't even try to look stern and domly when he came through my door yesterday because he was so damn happy to see me that his face was beautiful with smiles, that his eyes could hide nothing so discipline be damned, he was with his mistress, with his pet, with his slave and precious little girl and in two weeks we will have two whole days together - and nights, he says. Two whole nights.
And as of tomorrow, Labor Day in the U.S. where workers are denied May Day as their holiday, as of tomorrow September 1st it will be 6 years since I begged to be taken into my Master's service and he accepted me.
And in enslaving me, he freed me to be who I really am.
Showing posts with label anal sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anal sex. Show all posts
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Thursday, December 27, 2012
P is for Pain; so are peas.
Except I'm out of peas.
Frozen peas.
A big bag of frozen peas
to ease the pain
after the big beating Daddy gave his baby girl.
A welcome beating.
A desired beating.
A belt beating.
It's not that I like the pain exactly. But if I'm going to be beaten, I do... here I'm not sure what word to use. Like it more? Resist it less? Something about the sensation of that leather belt coming down on my ass...
He steadied me with his hand on the small of my back. He steadied me and swung the leather down. He went up and down my butt and onto the very top of my thighs. He knew I wanted it. Even though it was hard to take. He knows. Daddy almost always knows. He knows there is something about being whipped with his belt that his baby girl can almost say she likes.
She certainly wants it.
And she likes that word.
Not beaten.
The other one.
Whipped.
She likes to think about how he whipped her.
About he hurt her.
About how she screamed
and her screaming made him hot.
He always wants to hear her pain.
To hear her scream that he's hurting her.
He wants her to beg him to stop.
and he wants her to beg him for more.
Screaming.
Begging.
Crying.
It was not an act.
And now she's the one getting hot.
Remembering.
Remembering how he steadied her.
Remembering how he beat her.
Remembering how he hurt her.
Remembering how she lay there.
Holding still (more or less).
Accepting.
Submitting.
Welcoming.
There's an amazing intimacy to the exchange of pain.
The giving and receiving,
the inflicting and accepting.
She becomes soft.
She becomes wet, of course,
and also soft.
Very soft.
He whipped me early on, and then again later, while I was on my hands and knees between his legs sucking his cock, he took up the belt and brought it down again and again on my already stinging butt. He was whipping me very hard, he said, harder than before. But it didn't feel as bad because I was floating on cradling clouds of endorphins. They numb me. He spanked me on my reddened butt, he whipped me having already whipped me, and it just didn't hurt as much as it should have.
And then he touched me.
Caressed my skin.
Kissed my mouth.
And everything felt softer.
My mouth, my skin,
everything was softer,
yielding.
Another piece of the magic.
And then he raped his baby girl's tight little butt hole.
Which also hurt.
And which I also wanted.
And he came in my ass.
And I felt his pulsing.
And when it was over
and we lay close together
I looked in his face
and I saw it was good.
As for the peas... well yes, a nice cold compress would probably have been a good idea, as I realized later when I used the toilet at Starbuck's and it was cold and it felt ever so good. But I'm out of peas. Except for half a small bag. Which are peas destined to be eaten. And besides, I like the pain. In a way, the after-pain is part of my aftercare. I fondle it. Admire it. Sing to it. Float on it until the endorphins start to wear off and the analgesic wine I had for dinner starts to wear off, and you know... maybe a couple of Tylenol would be a good idea right around now...
Frozen peas.
A big bag of frozen peas
to ease the pain
after the big beating Daddy gave his baby girl.
A welcome beating.
A desired beating.
A belt beating.
It's not that I like the pain exactly. But if I'm going to be beaten, I do... here I'm not sure what word to use. Like it more? Resist it less? Something about the sensation of that leather belt coming down on my ass...
He steadied me with his hand on the small of my back. He steadied me and swung the leather down. He went up and down my butt and onto the very top of my thighs. He knew I wanted it. Even though it was hard to take. He knows. Daddy almost always knows. He knows there is something about being whipped with his belt that his baby girl can almost say she likes.
She certainly wants it.
And she likes that word.
Not beaten.
The other one.
Whipped.
She likes to think about how he whipped her.
About he hurt her.
About how she screamed
and her screaming made him hot.
He always wants to hear her pain.
To hear her scream that he's hurting her.
He wants her to beg him to stop.
and he wants her to beg him for more.
Screaming.
Begging.
Crying.
It was not an act.
And now she's the one getting hot.
Remembering.
Remembering how he steadied her.
Remembering how he beat her.
Remembering how he hurt her.
Remembering how she lay there.
Holding still (more or less).
Accepting.
Submitting.
Welcoming.
There's an amazing intimacy to the exchange of pain.
The giving and receiving,
the inflicting and accepting.
She becomes soft.
She becomes wet, of course,
and also soft.
Very soft.
He whipped me early on, and then again later, while I was on my hands and knees between his legs sucking his cock, he took up the belt and brought it down again and again on my already stinging butt. He was whipping me very hard, he said, harder than before. But it didn't feel as bad because I was floating on cradling clouds of endorphins. They numb me. He spanked me on my reddened butt, he whipped me having already whipped me, and it just didn't hurt as much as it should have.
And then he touched me.
Caressed my skin.
Kissed my mouth.
And everything felt softer.
My mouth, my skin,
everything was softer,
yielding.
Another piece of the magic.
And then he raped his baby girl's tight little butt hole.
Which also hurt.
And which I also wanted.
And he came in my ass.
And I felt his pulsing.
And when it was over
and we lay close together
I looked in his face
and I saw it was good.
As for the peas... well yes, a nice cold compress would probably have been a good idea, as I realized later when I used the toilet at Starbuck's and it was cold and it felt ever so good. But I'm out of peas. Except for half a small bag. Which are peas destined to be eaten. And besides, I like the pain. In a way, the after-pain is part of my aftercare. I fondle it. Admire it. Sing to it. Float on it until the endorphins start to wear off and the analgesic wine I had for dinner starts to wear off, and you know... maybe a couple of Tylenol would be a good idea right around now...
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Fuck me, damn it!
We spent the day in mutual masturbation.
Not with our fingers, though,
except for the action of fingers on keyboards.
It started with a scenario that, last night, inserted itself into his brain, playing over and over as he expanded and refined. It gripped him and, as he knew it would, gripped me as hard as his hand can close around my throat till I can hardly breathe.
This was a very large seed my Master planted in my brain. It germinated, rooted fast, and threw up shoots that envenomed like poison ivy. They touched him, infected him, and he tossed his visions back to me.
I was in pain for hours.
The pain of unrelieved arousal.
It was glorious.
He quite enjoyed my agony.
As did I.
We've been elsewhere mostly, this last month. Daddy's health issues, my SAD, assorted other problems in our lives, these have made for very different sorts of interactions. We are many things to each other, with each other, and we grew closer together in those other areas. What we were dealing with was hard, but how we interacted was beautiful and intimate, if not the kind of intimacy that involves the communing of body parts.
Underneath it all,
firmly underneath it all,
lay the foundation of his ownership.
We both know that without that
there would be
no "we."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
At this point, I was interrupted. There was supposed to be more to this post. About how he told me to leave a message on his voice mail while he went out to scrape the ice of his car. A message from Daddy's baby girl. A message apologizing for asking for something - because it's true, she's never supposed to just phone, and she certainly is never supposed to ask for anything for herself but this time he ordered me to phone and ask, to beg, please, please Daddy, please stick your cock in my little butt hole and fuck me! Which I do in fact badly want, he knows I want it, need it, that it has been an obsession for years, to be taken in the ass, raped in the ass, sodomized, debased, with nothing erotic about it. A butt-fucking that can only be humiliating, that accentuates the extent to which I am owned property, that sends me further down into that place, not a pretty floaty place despite the endorphins that will flow through me instead of blood. A dark, dark, perfect place - a perfect place, don't you see it's a perfect place? It's a safe place even though it's a dangerous place because of the chance the beast will break past the spell cast around him to keep me safe.
It's a safe place.
Because I don't have to pretend.
I can yield to everything.
Leave everything else behind.
Because with
every
stab
of pain
in my ass
his cock
declares
over
and over:
This
is what
you are.
And what
you are
is Mine.
So now we are talking about his taking me off to a rustic cabin in the woods. For a week of training and torture and transformation. He used to go to the perfect place as a child. I've been pulling up pictures of cabin interiors to set the scene.
A shared fantasy and nothing more?
Perhaps.
If so, the psychological effects will be real.
Then again,
with Daddy my Master,
you never do know...
[That subject line? Never in the world, never never never, would I ever say such a thing to my Master. But oh... It's been weeks since he fucked me. And I've so badly needed to cum all damn day. I wouldn't even have to cum. I could merely pass my finger tip over my very swollen clit. Though no. Do you hear my sigh? All it would take would be that one little touch and you would hear my orgasmic cries from here to London and California. So no. No touching. No cumming. Poor Baby...]
Not with our fingers, though,
except for the action of fingers on keyboards.
It started with a scenario that, last night, inserted itself into his brain, playing over and over as he expanded and refined. It gripped him and, as he knew it would, gripped me as hard as his hand can close around my throat till I can hardly breathe.
This was a very large seed my Master planted in my brain. It germinated, rooted fast, and threw up shoots that envenomed like poison ivy. They touched him, infected him, and he tossed his visions back to me.
I was in pain for hours.
The pain of unrelieved arousal.
It was glorious.
He quite enjoyed my agony.
As did I.
We've been elsewhere mostly, this last month. Daddy's health issues, my SAD, assorted other problems in our lives, these have made for very different sorts of interactions. We are many things to each other, with each other, and we grew closer together in those other areas. What we were dealing with was hard, but how we interacted was beautiful and intimate, if not the kind of intimacy that involves the communing of body parts.
Underneath it all,
firmly underneath it all,
lay the foundation of his ownership.
We both know that without that
there would be
no "we."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
At this point, I was interrupted. There was supposed to be more to this post. About how he told me to leave a message on his voice mail while he went out to scrape the ice of his car. A message from Daddy's baby girl. A message apologizing for asking for something - because it's true, she's never supposed to just phone, and she certainly is never supposed to ask for anything for herself but this time he ordered me to phone and ask, to beg, please, please Daddy, please stick your cock in my little butt hole and fuck me! Which I do in fact badly want, he knows I want it, need it, that it has been an obsession for years, to be taken in the ass, raped in the ass, sodomized, debased, with nothing erotic about it. A butt-fucking that can only be humiliating, that accentuates the extent to which I am owned property, that sends me further down into that place, not a pretty floaty place despite the endorphins that will flow through me instead of blood. A dark, dark, perfect place - a perfect place, don't you see it's a perfect place? It's a safe place even though it's a dangerous place because of the chance the beast will break past the spell cast around him to keep me safe.
It's a safe place.
Because I don't have to pretend.
I can yield to everything.
Leave everything else behind.
Because with
every
stab
of pain
in my ass
his cock
declares
over
and over:
This
is what
you are.
And what
you are
is Mine.
So now we are talking about his taking me off to a rustic cabin in the woods. For a week of training and torture and transformation. He used to go to the perfect place as a child. I've been pulling up pictures of cabin interiors to set the scene.
A shared fantasy and nothing more?
Perhaps.
If so, the psychological effects will be real.
Then again,
with Daddy my Master,
you never do know...
[That subject line? Never in the world, never never never, would I ever say such a thing to my Master. But oh... It's been weeks since he fucked me. And I've so badly needed to cum all damn day. I wouldn't even have to cum. I could merely pass my finger tip over my very swollen clit. Though no. Do you hear my sigh? All it would take would be that one little touch and you would hear my orgasmic cries from here to London and California. So no. No touching. No cumming. Poor Baby...]
Saturday, November 17, 2012
My butt hurts. My heart doesn't.
He says it.
Over and over.
Without the words, true, but as clearly as if he were shouting it from the top of the Washington Monument. Which is still closed for repairs of damage suffered in an unlikely earthquake a while back.
Like us.
That there is an us.
A very unlikely earthquake.
So many unlikely things...
Today, this man who declares he doesn't believe in aftercare, this man was lying next to me, luxuriating in the aftermath of his orgasm. The last few weeks have been very intense, it's been 2 weeks since we were together and he has made many wordless avowals for longer than that. So he's lying there, looking up at me, recovering, and I ask if he's OK, and he says yes - and then he asks if I'm OK. Which he never does. But it was very intense, "even for us," he says, and he has learned that he doesn't always realize if it has been too much for me, and now he has taken to worrying about that, to put it in the box of things he should be aware of as he tries to protect me from himself.
From the beast.
He said he took special steps yesterday to protect me. He wouldn't say what, but I suspect he went and unleashed some of his sadistic desire on another of the Others. To release the tension. There was still some left for me today - and why shouldn't there be? It's not just that he wants to cause pain. He wants to hurt me.
And I wanted him to hurt me.
Which he did.
He spanked me a lot.
Just with his hand.
But hard.
And often.
At various times during his 2 hours visit.
Harder and harder.
And the longer he was here
the harder he spanked me
and the less I could feel it.
Now I feel it.
I'm getting cold.
Some of the endorphins must be wearing off.
Not all of them.
I'm still very floaty.
But enough to allow my butt to hurt.
And it does really hurt.
I wonder if his hand hurts, too?
I'm happy that my butt hurts.
My pussy hurts, too.
From all the fucking.
Beautiful, beautiful fucking.
Some of it was fucking.
And some was making love.
The expression on his face.
That smile...
I'm very happy.
We were both very happy.
And very, very intimate.
He doesn't pretend any more.
That, he acknowledged.
He didn't say those other words.
But he did say he doesn't pretend any more.
And that's about as close as you can get.
And the words?
They could never say as much
as the smile
on his lips
and in his eyes.
But damn it.
My butt sure hurts!
Thank you, Daddy...
Over and over.
Without the words, true, but as clearly as if he were shouting it from the top of the Washington Monument. Which is still closed for repairs of damage suffered in an unlikely earthquake a while back.
Like us.
That there is an us.
A very unlikely earthquake.
So many unlikely things...
Today, this man who declares he doesn't believe in aftercare, this man was lying next to me, luxuriating in the aftermath of his orgasm. The last few weeks have been very intense, it's been 2 weeks since we were together and he has made many wordless avowals for longer than that. So he's lying there, looking up at me, recovering, and I ask if he's OK, and he says yes - and then he asks if I'm OK. Which he never does. But it was very intense, "even for us," he says, and he has learned that he doesn't always realize if it has been too much for me, and now he has taken to worrying about that, to put it in the box of things he should be aware of as he tries to protect me from himself.
From the beast.
He said he took special steps yesterday to protect me. He wouldn't say what, but I suspect he went and unleashed some of his sadistic desire on another of the Others. To release the tension. There was still some left for me today - and why shouldn't there be? It's not just that he wants to cause pain. He wants to hurt me.
And I wanted him to hurt me.
Which he did.
He spanked me a lot.
Just with his hand.
But hard.
And often.
At various times during his 2 hours visit.
Harder and harder.
And the longer he was here
the harder he spanked me
and the less I could feel it.
Now I feel it.
I'm getting cold.
Some of the endorphins must be wearing off.
Not all of them.
I'm still very floaty.
But enough to allow my butt to hurt.
And it does really hurt.
I wonder if his hand hurts, too?
I'm happy that my butt hurts.
My pussy hurts, too.
From all the fucking.
Beautiful, beautiful fucking.
Some of it was fucking.
And some was making love.
The expression on his face.
That smile...
I'm very happy.
We were both very happy.
And very, very intimate.
He doesn't pretend any more.
That, he acknowledged.
He didn't say those other words.
But he did say he doesn't pretend any more.
And that's about as close as you can get.
And the words?
They could never say as much
as the smile
on his lips
and in his eyes.
But damn it.
My butt sure hurts!
Thank you, Daddy...
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Don't you two have sex anymore?!
Why yes, now that you mention it.
We most certainly do!
And also yes.
I can hear what you're thinking.
First she disappears for months at a time, and then comes back only to give us these very vague references to undefined issues and unexplained resolutions, while going all poetic and mushy on us. C'mon! Give us a break! Where's the sex? Where's the pain?!
So yes.
To answer your questions.
He fucked me on and off for a long time today. And yes, that was pussy fucking. Lots of pussy fucking.
For a change, he didn't poke at my tight little butt hole.
He did fuck my mouth. But then he always does that. There is normally lots of raping of my mouth, and lots of very expert sucking and licking on my part.
Plus he's teaching me how to deep throat him. Very slowly and patiently, since I have an overactive gag mechanism and, in fact, had never been instructed in this fine art. Now, though, I can manage it for short periods of time, and am coming to understand why it is so pleasurable to the recipient.
Because in addition to being VERY sexual and very dominant, the fiend is very sensual. He cultivates my awareness of how things feel to him, which not only enables me to serve him better but also makes every act, every moment, more intimate. There's this communion of mind and body. A sharing of sensations, not just because we are both feeling something at the same time but because we are feeling the sensations through each other.
I really should find something better to call him than "the fiend." That term originated in the early days. But now...
The problem is, that any one word feels so incomplete.
Inadequate.
Daddy.
My Dom.
My Master.
My Owner.
My lover.
That's what a mistress has, isn't it?
A lover?
I've hesitated to use that term because of the multiple embedded meanings. Someone you have sex with. Someone who loves you. The first seemed reductive and the second... presumptuous, I suppose. Although yesterday he wrote that a mistress has the right to be presumptuous.
There is no one word.
He spoke a little more today about what he did for me last night. Whom he spoke to - although I knew whom he had to have spoken to. And no, it's not necessarily who you think.
He didn't reveal what he said, and I'm dying of curiosity, especially as he said he did specifically talk about me. And he didn't reveal what changes he was requiring. But I know - and this is what makes my heart melt - I know that... can you hear me faltering as I try to get out the words? Holding the idea close to my eyes and then turning away because of how it glows? It is both beautiful and fearsome, its flames licking at my cheeks and burning the lips that marvel as they kiss his.
I think...
I think I'm not just his treasure - a term he has used for years.
I think...
And this word is my choice.
I think I am his joy.
So now...
Imagine him fucking me...
Sometimes sweetly.
Sometimes fiercely.
His body melting into mine.
His arms restraining mine.
His chain around my neck.
Imagine him caning me
to remind me to work harder on my diet for him.
To remind me to exercise more.
Imagine me sucking his cock
as he lies back against the pillows.
Sometimes I'm up on my knees
so he can see the welts from the short, mild beating.
Sometimes I lie flat on my belly,
my legs together
giving my soft, moist mouth a better angle for service.
I often do that.
But this time
he looked down on my pink buttocks,
smaller now from the weight loss,
and they looked like a child's bottom,
so that he ordered me across his knees
and spanked me long and hard,
except I was drunk on endorphins
and it barely hurt at all.
I didn't want him to stop.
I wanted him to cane me.
And then I made him cum with my hand.
So he could look at me as his pleasure became more intense.
So he could look in my eyes
and look at my tits
and hear my voice
and kiss me as I served him.
And then he came,
as I said I am his mistress,
as I said that I love him,
and I've been saying I love him for 4 years now
but these days,
this last month,
the words make him cum.
The words make him cum and he cums with a smile.
He cums with a smile
from a different place.
A place of beauty.
A place of joy.
And it's
so
damn
intimate
that never
ever
in my whole life
have I ever known anything like it.
And it's maybe 4 hours later as I write this, and I know I'll be high for days. Barring something that unceremoniously hauls me back to a more pedestrian reality, I'll be floating at least through Tuesday, feeling his cells on my body, feeling his cells commingling with mine, feeling the gently sweet intimacy of this sadist's cock dwelling inside me, caressing me from the inside, loving me from the inside...
I've slipped into a reverie, and can't seem to find my way out. And really, why should I? So I'll stay there for now, incapable of summoning any bluntly pornographic sex scenes for your titillation. My sadist is a romantic, he can't help it, it's always been there, from the moment he found me.
And now he seems to have stopped pretending.
We most certainly do!
And also yes.
I can hear what you're thinking.
First she disappears for months at a time, and then comes back only to give us these very vague references to undefined issues and unexplained resolutions, while going all poetic and mushy on us. C'mon! Give us a break! Where's the sex? Where's the pain?!
So yes.
To answer your questions.
He fucked me on and off for a long time today. And yes, that was pussy fucking. Lots of pussy fucking.
For a change, he didn't poke at my tight little butt hole.
He did fuck my mouth. But then he always does that. There is normally lots of raping of my mouth, and lots of very expert sucking and licking on my part.
Plus he's teaching me how to deep throat him. Very slowly and patiently, since I have an overactive gag mechanism and, in fact, had never been instructed in this fine art. Now, though, I can manage it for short periods of time, and am coming to understand why it is so pleasurable to the recipient.
Because in addition to being VERY sexual and very dominant, the fiend is very sensual. He cultivates my awareness of how things feel to him, which not only enables me to serve him better but also makes every act, every moment, more intimate. There's this communion of mind and body. A sharing of sensations, not just because we are both feeling something at the same time but because we are feeling the sensations through each other.
I really should find something better to call him than "the fiend." That term originated in the early days. But now...
The problem is, that any one word feels so incomplete.
Inadequate.
Daddy.
My Dom.
My Master.
My Owner.
My lover.
That's what a mistress has, isn't it?
A lover?
I've hesitated to use that term because of the multiple embedded meanings. Someone you have sex with. Someone who loves you. The first seemed reductive and the second... presumptuous, I suppose. Although yesterday he wrote that a mistress has the right to be presumptuous.
There is no one word.
He spoke a little more today about what he did for me last night. Whom he spoke to - although I knew whom he had to have spoken to. And no, it's not necessarily who you think.
He didn't reveal what he said, and I'm dying of curiosity, especially as he said he did specifically talk about me. And he didn't reveal what changes he was requiring. But I know - and this is what makes my heart melt - I know that... can you hear me faltering as I try to get out the words? Holding the idea close to my eyes and then turning away because of how it glows? It is both beautiful and fearsome, its flames licking at my cheeks and burning the lips that marvel as they kiss his.
I think...
I think I'm not just his treasure - a term he has used for years.
I think...
And this word is my choice.
I think I am his joy.
So now...
Imagine him fucking me...
Sometimes sweetly.
Sometimes fiercely.
His body melting into mine.
His arms restraining mine.
His chain around my neck.
Imagine him caning me
to remind me to work harder on my diet for him.
To remind me to exercise more.
Imagine me sucking his cock
as he lies back against the pillows.
Sometimes I'm up on my knees
so he can see the welts from the short, mild beating.
Sometimes I lie flat on my belly,
my legs together
giving my soft, moist mouth a better angle for service.
I often do that.
But this time
he looked down on my pink buttocks,
smaller now from the weight loss,
and they looked like a child's bottom,
so that he ordered me across his knees
and spanked me long and hard,
except I was drunk on endorphins
and it barely hurt at all.
I didn't want him to stop.
I wanted him to cane me.
And then I made him cum with my hand.
So he could look at me as his pleasure became more intense.
So he could look in my eyes
and look at my tits
and hear my voice
and kiss me as I served him.
And then he came,
as I said I am his mistress,
as I said that I love him,
and I've been saying I love him for 4 years now
but these days,
this last month,
the words make him cum.
The words make him cum and he cums with a smile.
He cums with a smile
from a different place.
A place of beauty.
A place of joy.
And it's
so
damn
intimate
that never
ever
in my whole life
have I ever known anything like it.
And it's maybe 4 hours later as I write this, and I know I'll be high for days. Barring something that unceremoniously hauls me back to a more pedestrian reality, I'll be floating at least through Tuesday, feeling his cells on my body, feeling his cells commingling with mine, feeling the gently sweet intimacy of this sadist's cock dwelling inside me, caressing me from the inside, loving me from the inside...
I've slipped into a reverie, and can't seem to find my way out. And really, why should I? So I'll stay there for now, incapable of summoning any bluntly pornographic sex scenes for your titillation. My sadist is a romantic, he can't help it, it's always been there, from the moment he found me.
And now he seems to have stopped pretending.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
St. Andrew's Cross in a Condo Dungeon
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Saturday, May 12, 2012
Tended, tenderly, with caresses and pain
I am writing from somewhere very high up.
Open.
Expanded.
Floating.
I must be coming down a little, because as I sit here naked in bed, awake from a very long post-orgasmic nap, I can feel the pain building in my spanked and belt-beaten butt.
He knew what I needed.
What I needed for myself.
And what I needed for him,
to put me in that place he wanted me.
That place in which he can enjoy me.
And beyond.
He coaxed out his little girl.
Which he needed and I needed.
And then he sent me further.
Deeper and higher.
Deeper and higher into that awe-inspiring slave place.
I'm supposed to report to him after.
After he is gone.
Report to him on the experience from my perspective.
What I experienced and how I felt.
But I was horribly frustrated. I couldn't find the words. That place, the journey, what I felt, what I knew, what I touched on, the understanding that was so profound yet wouldn't solidify into description as if it were some perfect psychedelic trip while held safe in the arms of the man who was both guide and the drug itself. Except I wasn't in his arms.
Well, sometimes I was in his arms.
As he kissed me.
He has a graduate degree in kissing after years of independent study and lab experiments.
But the rest of the time I was sucking his cock.
Or sitting in his lap.
Or lying on my belly as my bottom reddened beneath his belt.
Or pinned to the futon by his body as his cock sought my tight little butt hole.
Later, he whipped me with his belt as I was sucking his cock. By then I was already pretty high. I could tell he was beating me harder than before, but as always happens when I'm that high, it didn't hurt as much. I could feel the impact, and it hurt a little, but I wasn't suffering from it.
I wished he had beaten me longer then.
But it's not for me to ask.
Everything is for him.
Even when it's what he thinks I need, it's to make me into what will please him.
Except you know what?
I'm sorry to contradict my Master, but that's not wholly true.
He cares for me.
A lot.
What was that term he allowed himself to use during our last night together?
He's "extremely fond" of me.
And from the way he said it, you could tell how much those words meant.
Plus when I was away.
He gave me a gift.
Special dispensation.
The prime directive was set aside.
The one about giving him what he wants, and not what he doesn't want.
You can write anything, he said.
Anything I wanted.
Anything I needed to say.
He took down the wall.
He was my lover.
He was my friend.
He was my strength.
Which, in fact, he always is.
But it's not safe to be that way without the structure.
The carapace.
For so many reasons.
But those parts of us are as much of what we are to and with each other as the rest of them. It's just that they need to be kept constrained. Like the beast in a way. Ironic, no? But I completely agree. For so many reasons, it would never work.
But sometimes he takes down the wall.
He takes care of me.
So he allowed me to say whatever I needed.
And granted me an unheard of 4 orgasms to be spread over the 5 days.
Because he knew what I needed.
Because he wanted to take care of me.
Because he wanted to ease my pain.
While today, he knew I needed the pain.
And then.
After he came.
After I gave him the release he needed,
as I sat on the floor before him,
my head in his lap,
he stroked my head,
he stroked my hair,
gently and tenderly
for the longest time.
And I felt very dear.
And very treasured.
And very safe.
Open.
Expanded.
Floating.
I must be coming down a little, because as I sit here naked in bed, awake from a very long post-orgasmic nap, I can feel the pain building in my spanked and belt-beaten butt.
He knew what I needed.
What I needed for myself.
And what I needed for him,
to put me in that place he wanted me.
That place in which he can enjoy me.
And beyond.
He coaxed out his little girl.
Which he needed and I needed.
And then he sent me further.
Deeper and higher.
Deeper and higher into that awe-inspiring slave place.
I'm supposed to report to him after.
After he is gone.
Report to him on the experience from my perspective.
What I experienced and how I felt.
But I was horribly frustrated. I couldn't find the words. That place, the journey, what I felt, what I knew, what I touched on, the understanding that was so profound yet wouldn't solidify into description as if it were some perfect psychedelic trip while held safe in the arms of the man who was both guide and the drug itself. Except I wasn't in his arms.
Well, sometimes I was in his arms.
As he kissed me.
He has a graduate degree in kissing after years of independent study and lab experiments.
But the rest of the time I was sucking his cock.
Or sitting in his lap.
Or lying on my belly as my bottom reddened beneath his belt.
Or pinned to the futon by his body as his cock sought my tight little butt hole.
Later, he whipped me with his belt as I was sucking his cock. By then I was already pretty high. I could tell he was beating me harder than before, but as always happens when I'm that high, it didn't hurt as much. I could feel the impact, and it hurt a little, but I wasn't suffering from it.
I wished he had beaten me longer then.
But it's not for me to ask.
Everything is for him.
Even when it's what he thinks I need, it's to make me into what will please him.
Except you know what?
I'm sorry to contradict my Master, but that's not wholly true.
He cares for me.
A lot.
What was that term he allowed himself to use during our last night together?
He's "extremely fond" of me.
And from the way he said it, you could tell how much those words meant.
Plus when I was away.
He gave me a gift.
Special dispensation.
The prime directive was set aside.
The one about giving him what he wants, and not what he doesn't want.
You can write anything, he said.
Anything I wanted.
Anything I needed to say.
He took down the wall.
He was my lover.
He was my friend.
He was my strength.
Which, in fact, he always is.
But it's not safe to be that way without the structure.
The carapace.
For so many reasons.
But those parts of us are as much of what we are to and with each other as the rest of them. It's just that they need to be kept constrained. Like the beast in a way. Ironic, no? But I completely agree. For so many reasons, it would never work.
But sometimes he takes down the wall.
He takes care of me.
So he allowed me to say whatever I needed.
And granted me an unheard of 4 orgasms to be spread over the 5 days.
Because he knew what I needed.
Because he wanted to take care of me.
Because he wanted to ease my pain.
While today, he knew I needed the pain.
And then.
After he came.
After I gave him the release he needed,
as I sat on the floor before him,
my head in his lap,
he stroked my head,
he stroked my hair,
gently and tenderly
for the longest time.
And I felt very dear.
And very treasured.
And very safe.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Inner child, inner slave
He calls them out.
He lures.
He beckons.
He demands their presence.
Not parts I play.
But parts of me.
Parts he has nourished.
Soothed.
Made welcome.
Until they felt safe.
Felt wanted.
Approved of.
And then he knows the magic words, the special touch, that will make this one or that one rise to the surface, open her eyes, and speak.
He hears.
He knows.
He lays his body
down on mine,
sees what is his,
and takes
what he needs.
He lures.
He beckons.
He demands their presence.
Not parts I play.
But parts of me.
Parts he has nourished.
Soothed.
Made welcome.
Until they felt safe.
Felt wanted.
Approved of.
And then he knows the magic words, the special touch, that will make this one or that one rise to the surface, open her eyes, and speak.
He hears.
He knows.
He lays his body
down on mine,
sees what is his,
and takes
what he needs.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Casino sunset
Greedily, the sunset filled the sky,
painting marks of pink and rose
on everything it washed.
Squashed against the chilling glass,
my pale tits blushed in fervid light,
mimicking the hot spanked butt
that ached to take your cock.
Written for the sadist
and offered by him for publication,
it was recited as I knelt naked before him,
serving his pleasure.
painting marks of pink and rose
on everything it washed.
Squashed against the chilling glass,
my pale tits blushed in fervid light,
mimicking the hot spanked butt
that ached to take your cock.
Written for the sadist
and offered by him for publication,
it was recited as I knelt naked before him,
serving his pleasure.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Written while sitting on my sore, hot butt
He needed to spank me today.
My Daddy has been dealing with a lot of aggravation lately, and he needed to spank his little girl. So he did. A lot. And hard. Though not as hard as I'm sure he wanted to.
He wanted to see his little girl's butt turn pink and then red. He wanted to feel it hot beneath him as he lay on top of her and pushed his Daddy cock against her tight little puckered butt hole until it hurt and she cried out "Ow! Daddy! It hurts!"
He loves when she tells him that he's hurting her.
So he spanked her as she was lying flat on the futon, with her panties pulled down below her knees and her Daddy straddling her legs so both those things made her feel restrained. And then he spanked her as she knelt before him sucking his cock, and as she rose up on her knees and he pulled her close to him while he sat on the chair that is his throne, and then as she lay on the futon facing in the other direction. He spanked her extra hard then, facing in the other direction, so her butt went from pink to red and grew very hot and was especially red on her right side because that's the side that shines in the light from the window when she kneels before him and sucks his cock.
He spanked me a lot.
He spanked me hard.
And I kept crying out that he was hurting me.
And later he spoke of how he had beaten me. which seemed rather a strong word to use for a hand spanking, except that the phrase arouses me, and it arouses him, and it makes me want him to beat me even though I probably - I know - I know I couldn't handle what he really wants to do.
When he hurts me, it makes me softer.
My mouth.
My tits.
My belly.
Everything softer.
Every time.
He spoke of how he wants to torture me.
Not of exactly what he wants to do.
He never tells me that.
But of part of why he wants to torture me.
Not for my screams.
But for my breath.
For the sharp intake of breath that would precede a scream.
He protects me.
He prevents himself from torturing me.
He denies himself.
He suffers to protect me.
Because to give in to the beast would be to destroy us.
And what we have, what we are, is too precious.
He wouldn't risk that.
But he does let himself spank me.
And now my bottom is still pink.
My bottom is still warm.
My bottom still hurts.
My Daddy spanked me.
And I'm so glad he did.
My Daddy has been dealing with a lot of aggravation lately, and he needed to spank his little girl. So he did. A lot. And hard. Though not as hard as I'm sure he wanted to.
He wanted to see his little girl's butt turn pink and then red. He wanted to feel it hot beneath him as he lay on top of her and pushed his Daddy cock against her tight little puckered butt hole until it hurt and she cried out "Ow! Daddy! It hurts!"
He loves when she tells him that he's hurting her.
So he spanked her as she was lying flat on the futon, with her panties pulled down below her knees and her Daddy straddling her legs so both those things made her feel restrained. And then he spanked her as she knelt before him sucking his cock, and as she rose up on her knees and he pulled her close to him while he sat on the chair that is his throne, and then as she lay on the futon facing in the other direction. He spanked her extra hard then, facing in the other direction, so her butt went from pink to red and grew very hot and was especially red on her right side because that's the side that shines in the light from the window when she kneels before him and sucks his cock.
He spanked me a lot.
He spanked me hard.
And I kept crying out that he was hurting me.
And later he spoke of how he had beaten me. which seemed rather a strong word to use for a hand spanking, except that the phrase arouses me, and it arouses him, and it makes me want him to beat me even though I probably - I know - I know I couldn't handle what he really wants to do.
When he hurts me, it makes me softer.
My mouth.
My tits.
My belly.
Everything softer.
Every time.
He spoke of how he wants to torture me.
Not of exactly what he wants to do.
He never tells me that.
But of part of why he wants to torture me.
Not for my screams.
But for my breath.
For the sharp intake of breath that would precede a scream.
He protects me.
He prevents himself from torturing me.
He denies himself.
He suffers to protect me.
Because to give in to the beast would be to destroy us.
And what we have, what we are, is too precious.
He wouldn't risk that.
But he does let himself spank me.
And now my bottom is still pink.
My bottom is still warm.
My bottom still hurts.
My Daddy spanked me.
And I'm so glad he did.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Forced masturbation; the torture of pleasure (2)
Continued from yesterday's post, a slightly edited version of the day's correspondence; day devoted to orgasm-less masturbation, every 2 hours. An activity meant to submerge me in my service as my Master's sex slave.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I am feeling chained by this schedule, my Lord. The frequency of my duties pulls on my leash every 2 hours. I both resent and crave it and, most of all, feel your ownership.
This time, my Lord, I pulled off my jeans and left them lying on the floor by my bed. Only my plain white cotton panties were pushed down below my knees as I lay in the bed. My body knew what it wanted. What it needed. I felt its desperation. It wasn't content to passively receive the vibrations. First my need commanded my hand to move the little device back and forth over my clit. Then it ordered my body to thrust back and forth under the silicone, seizing the stimulation it craved while knowing that its real desire would go unfulfilled.
For the first time today, I wanted to shove the instrument of your torment inside me. I reached down to spread my lips and came across the Tampax string. Oh well... Yet another stage in the torture.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I'm feeling crazed, my Lord.
Desperate.
Imprisoned.
Frantic.
Tortured.
That pleases you.
Doesn't it, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(Please, my Lord. May I use an edited version of my reports, plus your initial assignment, in a blog post? Not the [xxx] part, though. That's private. Thank you, my Master.)
My Master.
Yes.
Very much that.
You are exercising your power today, my Lord.
Reminding me of how powerless I am.
Reminding me that everything I do - everything - is for you.
Reminding me how I rejoice in my suffering as you choke me with your chain.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[As the signal arrived for the next masturbation session]
Again?!
Already??!!!
Yes, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
You may [post the reports], but make sure you give me a special session of torment for the next one.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[sent from my cell phone as I was masturbating]
Torment.
Right now, my Lord.
I've wedged the little vibrator between my legs.
Between my lips.
The tip is making my anus buzz.
I see nothing but scenes of torture...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My eyes are glazed with the pain of pleasure of pain of pleasure... I'm no longer sure where one leaves off and the other begins... it's a wave... flowing.... a stream of pleasure and pain pouring from my womb, propelled in a green river as the pump contracts with sharp stabs...
"Beg me, my pet."
Your words are sweet, gentle, honey tinged with poison.
"Please, my Lord..."
I can barely get out the words.
"Please, please, may I cum? Please may I cum... for you..."
"And what will you give me if I let you cum, my pet?"
"Everything, my Lord. Everything and more."
You seize the chain clasped tightly around my neck and drag me to the coffee table. You shove a pillow under my belly and tightly bind my wrists and ankles to the table legs.
I hear the match strike.
I smell the sulphur.
I sniff the singeing of the wick, the melting of the wax.
I see you take a paper clip from your pocket.
I watch you bend it.
I observe your hand close around the pliers.
I watch the thin metal rise in the air and approach the candle flame.
I do not look away as the silver turns to red.
I breathe deeply and and give thanks for my unbearable arousal.
I gasp as you press the tiny brand against my butt cheek.
I feel the tears rise in my throat.
I do not yet see the tiny letter you have seared into my skin.
But I know it is there.
I cry with pain and joy.
I forget about cumming.
I belong to you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My pussy lips are red and swollen, my Lord.
They hurt.
I am stunned and dazed, my Lord.
For you, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now you may post.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Thank you, my Lord.
And thank you for allowing me to distract you all day.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Time for another round, my Lord.
My pussy now exists only for you.
And so I suffer more pleasure.
All for you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My body is desperate to cum, my Lord.
My brain is firing wildly.
Image after image bounced off the walls of my mind.
You force me to live like this for the rest of my life.
Every 2 hours for the rest of my life.
I am restrained and touched and prodded and bombarded with stimuli.
You take me to the casino, controlling a vibrator embedded in my pussy. At first you administer pulses here and there but soon it is going non-stop and I'm wriggling and moaning as you scold me for not concentrating on the craps game.
We are up in the hotel room.
The one at the casino.
Or the one with white linens.
The images move swiftly.
I'm on my belly.
Or bent over.
You flog me.
Cane me.
Beat me with the hairbrush.
The pain isn't in the images.
I don't relive the pain.
I just see you.
And the implement
coming down on my butt.
And then man after man
using me
fucking me
from behind
always from behind
ramming his cock into my poor abused butt hole.
My body and mind have joined forces, my Lord, to say how much I need to cum.
I know it won't make any difference, my Lord.
I know it is forbidden.
The next time I touch myself, my Lord, we will be watching The Borgias together.
And you will feel my agony...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
And so, my Lord.
The last time.
I reclined back on my pillows as I watched The Borgias from my bed. Naked, the chain clipped tight around my left ankle, the butt plug firmly in place - all these things as they still are. I was distracted, my Lord. The phone rang twice during the first half hour - calls from my parents that I didn't answer as they very belatedly returned my call from earlier in the evening. I was distracted. I searched for the sense of you with me and I couldn't find you.
The warning came at 10:25. The 5 minute warning to once again touch the pussy you hold captive for my torment and your pleasure. I held the little purple vibrator in my hand until the 5 minutes passed, then turned it on and settled it gently against my tired tissues.
Tired.
My pussy was tired.
My pussy was tired and the armies were preparing for war.
This time, the little device didn't make me crazy.
Instead, it settled me down.
It calmed my distraction.
It brought me home to you.
I belong to you, my Lord.
I belong to you, my Master.
I am yours in a way that is far greater than these titles,
these modes of address,
these rituals of my devotion can possibly convey.
I am deeply and truly yours, my Lord.
My Master.
We are both, perhaps, slaves to that.
I love you, my Lord.
And my body yearns for yours.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I am feeling chained by this schedule, my Lord. The frequency of my duties pulls on my leash every 2 hours. I both resent and crave it and, most of all, feel your ownership.
This time, my Lord, I pulled off my jeans and left them lying on the floor by my bed. Only my plain white cotton panties were pushed down below my knees as I lay in the bed. My body knew what it wanted. What it needed. I felt its desperation. It wasn't content to passively receive the vibrations. First my need commanded my hand to move the little device back and forth over my clit. Then it ordered my body to thrust back and forth under the silicone, seizing the stimulation it craved while knowing that its real desire would go unfulfilled.
For the first time today, I wanted to shove the instrument of your torment inside me. I reached down to spread my lips and came across the Tampax string. Oh well... Yet another stage in the torture.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I'm feeling crazed, my Lord.
Desperate.
Imprisoned.
Frantic.
Tortured.
That pleases you.
Doesn't it, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(Please, my Lord. May I use an edited version of my reports, plus your initial assignment, in a blog post? Not the [xxx] part, though. That's private. Thank you, my Master.)
My Master.
Yes.
Very much that.
You are exercising your power today, my Lord.
Reminding me of how powerless I am.
Reminding me that everything I do - everything - is for you.
Reminding me how I rejoice in my suffering as you choke me with your chain.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[As the signal arrived for the next masturbation session]
Again?!
Already??!!!
Yes, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
You may [post the reports], but make sure you give me a special session of torment for the next one.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[sent from my cell phone as I was masturbating]
Torment.
Right now, my Lord.
I've wedged the little vibrator between my legs.
Between my lips.
The tip is making my anus buzz.
I see nothing but scenes of torture...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My eyes are glazed with the pain of pleasure of pain of pleasure... I'm no longer sure where one leaves off and the other begins... it's a wave... flowing.... a stream of pleasure and pain pouring from my womb, propelled in a green river as the pump contracts with sharp stabs...
"Beg me, my pet."
Your words are sweet, gentle, honey tinged with poison.
"Please, my Lord..."
I can barely get out the words.
"Please, please, may I cum? Please may I cum... for you..."
"And what will you give me if I let you cum, my pet?"
"Everything, my Lord. Everything and more."
You seize the chain clasped tightly around my neck and drag me to the coffee table. You shove a pillow under my belly and tightly bind my wrists and ankles to the table legs.
I hear the match strike.
I smell the sulphur.
I sniff the singeing of the wick, the melting of the wax.
I see you take a paper clip from your pocket.
I watch you bend it.
I observe your hand close around the pliers.
I watch the thin metal rise in the air and approach the candle flame.
I do not look away as the silver turns to red.
I breathe deeply and and give thanks for my unbearable arousal.
I gasp as you press the tiny brand against my butt cheek.
I feel the tears rise in my throat.
I do not yet see the tiny letter you have seared into my skin.
But I know it is there.
I cry with pain and joy.
I forget about cumming.
I belong to you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My pussy lips are red and swollen, my Lord.
They hurt.
I am stunned and dazed, my Lord.
For you, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now you may post.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Thank you, my Lord.
And thank you for allowing me to distract you all day.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Time for another round, my Lord.
My pussy now exists only for you.
And so I suffer more pleasure.
All for you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My body is desperate to cum, my Lord.
My brain is firing wildly.
Image after image bounced off the walls of my mind.
You force me to live like this for the rest of my life.
Every 2 hours for the rest of my life.
I am restrained and touched and prodded and bombarded with stimuli.
You take me to the casino, controlling a vibrator embedded in my pussy. At first you administer pulses here and there but soon it is going non-stop and I'm wriggling and moaning as you scold me for not concentrating on the craps game.
We are up in the hotel room.
The one at the casino.
Or the one with white linens.
The images move swiftly.
I'm on my belly.
Or bent over.
You flog me.
Cane me.
Beat me with the hairbrush.
The pain isn't in the images.
I don't relive the pain.
I just see you.
And the implement
coming down on my butt.
And then man after man
using me
fucking me
from behind
always from behind
ramming his cock into my poor abused butt hole.
My body and mind have joined forces, my Lord, to say how much I need to cum.
I know it won't make any difference, my Lord.
I know it is forbidden.
The next time I touch myself, my Lord, we will be watching The Borgias together.
And you will feel my agony...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
And so, my Lord.
The last time.
I reclined back on my pillows as I watched The Borgias from my bed. Naked, the chain clipped tight around my left ankle, the butt plug firmly in place - all these things as they still are. I was distracted, my Lord. The phone rang twice during the first half hour - calls from my parents that I didn't answer as they very belatedly returned my call from earlier in the evening. I was distracted. I searched for the sense of you with me and I couldn't find you.
The warning came at 10:25. The 5 minute warning to once again touch the pussy you hold captive for my torment and your pleasure. I held the little purple vibrator in my hand until the 5 minutes passed, then turned it on and settled it gently against my tired tissues.
Tired.
My pussy was tired.
My pussy was tired and the armies were preparing for war.
This time, the little device didn't make me crazy.
Instead, it settled me down.
It calmed my distraction.
It brought me home to you.
I belong to you, my Lord.
I belong to you, my Master.
I am yours in a way that is far greater than these titles,
these modes of address,
these rituals of my devotion can possibly convey.
I am deeply and truly yours, my Lord.
My Master.
We are both, perhaps, slaves to that.
I love you, my Lord.
And my body yearns for yours.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Masturbation mania (6) - submitting to the Fun Factory Bootie
As you can see from the photograph, responses to part 1 of my adventures with the Bootie butt plug inspired me to boil my little purple pal. Afterwards, I figured that I shouldn't have worried about the pot remaining suitable for cooking, as it would have been sterilized by the boiling. I ended up tossing in the other plug as well - although neither was betraying any hint of unwelcome perfume.
I only wish I had cleaned the stove first. Oh well. At least my butt plugs are spotless, even if my kitchen isn't.
Towards the end of yesterday's post, I gave a first hint of how my use of and intense reaction to the Bootie affected the sadist. I'll rewind my story a bit and then go on from there, as his response led to what happened to me the following day - and is why, a week later, my body still displays spots of green.
We were e-mailing back and forth during the hours of anal invasion.
me:
What do you want to do to me, my Lord?
Right now?
If I were naked before you right now?
Invaded and chained....
He:
Violate and degrade you.
me:
yes, my Lord.
i feel very small now, my Lord...
... and subdued.
a small, subdued, whimpering pet...
He:
I am going to take a brief nap now, and dream of degrading you. Keep the plug in until I awake.
And later, after his nap, after he ordered me to remove the plug:
He:
You will have it available for me when I visit. You may not use it unless authorized by me.
me:
Yes, my Lord.
You are sounding very stern, my Lord.
Hard.
Commanding.
You have gone to a certain place, also, I think...
He:
I have, my pet. And I may remain there until Tuesday.
me:
oh.
i see, my Lord.
from the thought of a butt plug, my Lord?
or rather, from the thought of my little butt hole being violated?
He:
All of it, including your reactions, have fueled my fire.
The beast was awake and on the prowl.
And it came to pass just as he predicted. His hunger didn't abate, and I felt the beast breathing on my neck all through Monday. I was prepared to be hurt. And I knew he would want to use the butt plug. The difference, though, was that, rather than being punished, I would be serving his sadistic side, which I don't often get to do because of how he protects me from his worst. And I didn't suffer his worst. Not at all. He continued to protect me, and for that I am always grateful.
I won't go into all the details of what he did that day, as they don't really relate to this review. What is important to note is the major impact (ahem...) this particular item had on both of us.
I've said that we don't play, and that is true. Everything we do is very real, very much an integral part of our relationship, even as there are things done and endured for my Master's pleasure. However, some of our interactions are more light-hearted than others. I don't feel it is inappropriate to refer to my vibrators as sex toys. But I just can't see calling this butt plug a toy of any sort.
And yes, he did whack at my butt with the cane.
He flogged me and spanked me
and twisted my nipples.
Some of that hurt like hell.
Some of it came after he aroused me
and was part of his new project
to forge a link between pleasure and pain.
Then I felt the impact
but it didn't hurt
and I begged for more.
Except for when he spanked my inner thigh.
That hurt like hell,
arousal or no.
He'll remember that for sure...
But back to the butt plug.
He ordered me to bring it to him.
To lube it up and bring it to him.
I slathered it with lube, remembering how it had hurt going in when I inserted it, and afraid of how it would feel when he rammed it through my little hole. I probably put on too much, because it wasn't quite as securely inside me as it had been on Sunday.
He ordered me down on the floor before him, on my hands and knees. He didn't insert the plug. He shoved it in. I think it took him but one false try before he got it inside me. Easier for someone else to do it, as he wasn't holding back in response to the immediate feedback of discomfort.
My memory becomes a little fuzzy here, but perhaps it was right after this that he started fucking my ass with the little hunk of purple silicone. Or, to use my Master's preferred terminology, butt fucking me. And here we hit one of the few weaknesses in the Bootie. It's great as a butt plug, it's great for long-term wear. It's comfortable yet... inspiring, and it stays solidly in. But because of the curve, it's not that good for butt fucking. Still. Nothing's perfect. And the sadist did a pretty good job with it anyway.
I was still on my hands and knees before him, the plug being moved back and forth in my ass, when suddenly he shoved two fingers into my pussy. Now I was being fucked in two holes at once.
Coldly.
Purposefully.
I was aroused as hell.
And I started feeling...
demeaned.
It surprised me.
I should be used to ambivalence by now.
I told him.
I told him how I felt.
Aroused and demeaned.
Humiliated by what felt like an old fantasy.
A fantasy we shared.
I'm starting to float away now as I recall it... what it felt like... and what it brought to mind... being forced down on one strange guy's cock while another one fucked me in the ass. Friends of his. While he watch and enjoyed seeing me used. Objectified...
Very powerful.
And then he had me where he wanted me.
Dripping wet.
Time for the next activity.
That's when he spanked me.
Harder and harder
and it didn't even hurt
but only made me want more.
There were other things that afternoon. But this is supposed to be a butt plug review. So I'll leave it there. Except to say that he allowed me to leave the butt plug in as long as I wanted and I only removed it because I really needed to poop.
I do love the Bootie.
I really do the Bootie.
And I think it will contribute to many more intense adventures for me and my beloved, sadistic Master.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Masturbating on a Saturday night
Those men and their craigslist ads.
They've got this thing about showing their cocks.
Silly men. If they are no more than their cocks, they can be easily replaced by a dildo. Or a vibrator, to give that extra little zap of stimulation. And these dependable substitutes come in such a delicious variety of colors!
Delicious.
Well, maybe not.
A cock can be very delicious.
But a dildo?
You can't really call a dildo delicious.
Even if you coat it in a flavored condom.
I've never sucked a man in a condom.
Flavored or otherwise.
Silly, I suppose, but I've done wilder things.
Like inviting the sadist to my home without first meeting him in some public place and for that meeting or later arranging a silent alarm. I didn't have to. I knew. I knew that I had no choice. That he would come to my house and that would be it. It would be right.
But then, this post isn't about the sadist.
OK.
I lie.
It's always about the sadist.
At the end of his visit on Friday - not confined to an exact half hour now that I am no longer working - he said "You may masturbate. Not necessarily today, but sometime this weekend. And you will, of course, send me a report." "Thank you," I said, from my position on the bed. "Of course I will report. I know that my orgasms belong to you."
The position was the same one I had assumed for the spoon spanking. I posed solidly on forearms and calves, arms wider than shoulders for greater security, legs spread as well for easier access to my pussy. My back was arched as much as I could and then a little more, making my puckered little brown butt hole especially inviting. I suspect that is the ultimate purpose of my learning this position - to withstand being pushed over by the force of his attack on my anus.
Now my pussy is twitching madly.
I think I am indulging in protracted self-foreplay.
Just as sex is more than penetration, masturbation is more than genital stimulation.
Still, I can't imagine why I wandered over to craigslist to browse among the shockingly pathetic ads that men place as they look to get laid. Especially in casual encounters. I mean really, guys. Do they work for you? I suppose so. I suppose there must be some desperate, brainless women who need to have their cunts stuffed and not much more. A good fuck can be just what is needed at times.
But even when it's just for the sex, I still need some intellectual connection for it to be at all satisfactory. I have certainly never replied to a cock standing up and saying "Ooh, look at me! Aren't I the big one. Wanna have some fun tonight?" Though on second thought, if a CL advertiser had enough creativity to present a talking cock, I just might linger a while...
Of course, the problem can go the other way as well. Guys who are quite intriguing or - and here I think of one man in particular - a longstanding friend with whom there has been a longstanding flirtation. But when it comes to his cock, it is neither longstanding nor particularly creative. When we finally got down to it, and the few times we repeated the act thereafter, it just wasn't all that satisfying. So when he came on to me again last year, I turned him down. I did it in a sweet way, and we continue to flirt, and the sexual tension continues to hang there between us. But I turned him down. I would actually be quite happy to kiss and cuddle, to snuggle nakedly - but not to fuck. Too bad. If we really did end up a couple, it would be so convenient, even though he does live up north a few hours.
And he wasn't the only disappointment. I need that magic combined package of physical and intellectual attraction plus the ability to deliver. He doesn't have to be huge. He doesn't even have to be able to sustain a 20-minute fuck. He just has to know how intoxicate me with his kisses, raise and maintain the sexual tension, make my mind disappear into a haze of sensuality and tortured nerve endings, and then leave me feeling beautiful and appreciated and fulfilled, whether or not I actually cum.
Asking too much?
No. There are guys like that out there.
20-minute fuck and all.
[she smiles to herself]
So here I am, browsing the stupidest of the craigslist ads, wondering why, then suddenly remembering that I have a masturbation card to redeem. Could I really be using those cock pictures for inspiration?
Yuck!
So why do I turn to these stupid ads and these ridiculous, graceless pictures?
I think because a part of me - at least in my mind - is drawn to the brutality of a fuck in which the only interest on the man's side is to get his cock into my pussy as fast as he can, and then to use said pussy to satisfy his need. Period. There is cock and there is hole. I am the hole. I am the source of friction he needs to get off. And the rest of me? Something to play with, something to paw at, something to torture or whatever he needs to stimulate his hunger. To make him think of himself as huge, powerful, controlling, whatever the hell it is these guys need to get themselves so hot. Me, I know what my beloved fiend needs and wants, and I am oh so good at giving it to him. Sure, he owns me, he orchestrates everything from our relationship as a whole to our time together to when (or if, ever) I get to cum to my bedtime 5 days a week. But when I am down on my knees before him, his cock in my mouth, I am a Master Chef, and I know just what herbs and spices to add, what incantations to say, how much heat to apply to the pan, and how long to let it simmer to give him a orgasm that sets him growling and moaning and grunting and roaring until he is spent and satisfied.
I suspect this post doesn't hold together.
I read it over and added bits and it seems completely disjointed.
Oh well, who cares.
I'm too tired to fix it.
I think I'll go watch a DVD and fondle myself.
Maybe I'll imagine a camera.
Focused on the bed.
People will be watching.
My legs will be spread
so the view will be clear
and I'll be petting my pussy
and you'll see it grow wetter and redder
and I'll slip my fingers inside
and you'll think about what you'd like to be slipping inside
except some of you will want to hurt me first.
some of you will want to twist my nipples
and bite my neck
and bind me to the bed
so you can spank my pussy with the spoon
or flog it without my rolling away
and you are drinking my screams
and then reaching for the cane
until your cock is ready to burst
and you shove it down my throat
and you drive it into my cunt
and you chain my feet over my head
and stab your cock
deep in my ass hole
and I shriek as you fuck me
and I sob and I cry
and it only makes you harder
and then I start to moan
and I thrust up to meet you
and your balls bounce off my butt
and now we're both grunting
and I'm sobbing and moaning
and your mouth . . .
there are no words for your mouth . . .
and I'm trussed up like a chicken
a chicken being butt fucked
and you slip your fingers between us
and you take pity on my pussy
and you fondle me and fuck me
and I'm writhing in the chains
and moaning and calling your name
and we cum
and we cum
and we cum
Damn, but I'm wet.
They've got this thing about showing their cocks.
Silly men. If they are no more than their cocks, they can be easily replaced by a dildo. Or a vibrator, to give that extra little zap of stimulation. And these dependable substitutes come in such a delicious variety of colors!
Delicious.
Well, maybe not.
A cock can be very delicious.
But a dildo?
You can't really call a dildo delicious.
Even if you coat it in a flavored condom.
I've never sucked a man in a condom.
Flavored or otherwise.
Silly, I suppose, but I've done wilder things.
Like inviting the sadist to my home without first meeting him in some public place and for that meeting or later arranging a silent alarm. I didn't have to. I knew. I knew that I had no choice. That he would come to my house and that would be it. It would be right.
But then, this post isn't about the sadist.
OK.
I lie.
It's always about the sadist.
At the end of his visit on Friday - not confined to an exact half hour now that I am no longer working - he said "You may masturbate. Not necessarily today, but sometime this weekend. And you will, of course, send me a report." "Thank you," I said, from my position on the bed. "Of course I will report. I know that my orgasms belong to you."
The position was the same one I had assumed for the spoon spanking. I posed solidly on forearms and calves, arms wider than shoulders for greater security, legs spread as well for easier access to my pussy. My back was arched as much as I could and then a little more, making my puckered little brown butt hole especially inviting. I suspect that is the ultimate purpose of my learning this position - to withstand being pushed over by the force of his attack on my anus.
Now my pussy is twitching madly.
I think I am indulging in protracted self-foreplay.
Just as sex is more than penetration, masturbation is more than genital stimulation.
Still, I can't imagine why I wandered over to craigslist to browse among the shockingly pathetic ads that men place as they look to get laid. Especially in casual encounters. I mean really, guys. Do they work for you? I suppose so. I suppose there must be some desperate, brainless women who need to have their cunts stuffed and not much more. A good fuck can be just what is needed at times.
But even when it's just for the sex, I still need some intellectual connection for it to be at all satisfactory. I have certainly never replied to a cock standing up and saying "Ooh, look at me! Aren't I the big one. Wanna have some fun tonight?" Though on second thought, if a CL advertiser had enough creativity to present a talking cock, I just might linger a while...
Of course, the problem can go the other way as well. Guys who are quite intriguing or - and here I think of one man in particular - a longstanding friend with whom there has been a longstanding flirtation. But when it comes to his cock, it is neither longstanding nor particularly creative. When we finally got down to it, and the few times we repeated the act thereafter, it just wasn't all that satisfying. So when he came on to me again last year, I turned him down. I did it in a sweet way, and we continue to flirt, and the sexual tension continues to hang there between us. But I turned him down. I would actually be quite happy to kiss and cuddle, to snuggle nakedly - but not to fuck. Too bad. If we really did end up a couple, it would be so convenient, even though he does live up north a few hours.
And he wasn't the only disappointment. I need that magic combined package of physical and intellectual attraction plus the ability to deliver. He doesn't have to be huge. He doesn't even have to be able to sustain a 20-minute fuck. He just has to know how intoxicate me with his kisses, raise and maintain the sexual tension, make my mind disappear into a haze of sensuality and tortured nerve endings, and then leave me feeling beautiful and appreciated and fulfilled, whether or not I actually cum.
Asking too much?
No. There are guys like that out there.
20-minute fuck and all.
[she smiles to herself]
So here I am, browsing the stupidest of the craigslist ads, wondering why, then suddenly remembering that I have a masturbation card to redeem. Could I really be using those cock pictures for inspiration?
Yuck!
So why do I turn to these stupid ads and these ridiculous, graceless pictures?
I think because a part of me - at least in my mind - is drawn to the brutality of a fuck in which the only interest on the man's side is to get his cock into my pussy as fast as he can, and then to use said pussy to satisfy his need. Period. There is cock and there is hole. I am the hole. I am the source of friction he needs to get off. And the rest of me? Something to play with, something to paw at, something to torture or whatever he needs to stimulate his hunger. To make him think of himself as huge, powerful, controlling, whatever the hell it is these guys need to get themselves so hot. Me, I know what my beloved fiend needs and wants, and I am oh so good at giving it to him. Sure, he owns me, he orchestrates everything from our relationship as a whole to our time together to when (or if, ever) I get to cum to my bedtime 5 days a week. But when I am down on my knees before him, his cock in my mouth, I am a Master Chef, and I know just what herbs and spices to add, what incantations to say, how much heat to apply to the pan, and how long to let it simmer to give him a orgasm that sets him growling and moaning and grunting and roaring until he is spent and satisfied.
I suspect this post doesn't hold together.
I read it over and added bits and it seems completely disjointed.
Oh well, who cares.
I'm too tired to fix it.
I think I'll go watch a DVD and fondle myself.
Maybe I'll imagine a camera.
Focused on the bed.
People will be watching.
My legs will be spread
so the view will be clear
and I'll be petting my pussy
and you'll see it grow wetter and redder
and I'll slip my fingers inside
and you'll think about what you'd like to be slipping inside
except some of you will want to hurt me first.
some of you will want to twist my nipples
and bite my neck
and bind me to the bed
so you can spank my pussy with the spoon
or flog it without my rolling away
and you are drinking my screams
and then reaching for the cane
until your cock is ready to burst
and you shove it down my throat
and you drive it into my cunt
and you chain my feet over my head
and stab your cock
deep in my ass hole
and I shriek as you fuck me
and I sob and I cry
and it only makes you harder
and then I start to moan
and I thrust up to meet you
and your balls bounce off my butt
and now we're both grunting
and I'm sobbing and moaning
and your mouth . . .
there are no words for your mouth . . .
and I'm trussed up like a chicken
a chicken being butt fucked
and you slip your fingers between us
and you take pity on my pussy
and you fondle me and fuck me
and I'm writhing in the chains
and moaning and calling your name
and we cum
and we cum
and we cum
Damn, but I'm wet.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Up my ass
There were four of us in the room.
Two men.
One white, one black.
Two women.
Both white and short and Jewish.
One of the women was me.
Neither of the men was the sadist.
Everyone was fully dressed but me.
I wore a black bra and and black socks.
There were cats on the socks.
Purple cats and fuchsia and turquoise and orange and red.
I lay on my side,
my bottom on offer,
my small brown puckered butt hole prepared to be invaded.
And then I passed out.
No, alas, it wasn't some wild, abusive orgy cooked up by the fiend. For one thing, he would have been there, sitting in the corner in his chair, directing the action, becoming more aroused by the minute. He would have been planning it for months, down to the smallest detail, frustrated when circumstances he couldn't control caused changes or delays.
He hates being stymied.
He hates not being in control.
So, no.
No orgy this time.
Merely a colonoscopy.
The routine colonoscopy I should have had when I turned 50 but instead put off for 11 years because I was so traumatized around such things by my 20 years dealing with ex-hubby #2 and his Crohn's disease that my PTSD led me to jeopardize my own health because I kept conveniently forgetting to schedule the procedure.
Luckily, all went well.
There's was nothing for the doctor to comment on.
Not a thing.
Oh, and the cast of characters?
The other Jewish woman was the doctor.
She's even shorter than I am.
The 2 men were both yummy.
The white guy was the anesthesiologist.
Very cute.
I flirted with him.
The black guy had a prominent wedding ring.
He seemed quite yummy, too.
Warm and friendly and reassuring.
Good characteristics for a tech.
He sighed as we waited for the doctor.
Good biking day.
It was a pity to waste it indoors.
As for the fiend, he told me to be a good girl at the doctor's.
So I was a very good girl.
And there was nothing wrong.
Isn't that a nice story?
And I'm sure there will be another occasion when I am similarly vulnerable. But on that day, the fiend will have gathered a group of his cronies to enjoy the privilege of fucking my ass. I know he will. Because just the mention of it makes him crazy hot.
Of course, whether he'll let me tell you about it is a whole other story.
We'll see...
Two men.
One white, one black.
Two women.
Both white and short and Jewish.
One of the women was me.
Neither of the men was the sadist.
Everyone was fully dressed but me.
I wore a black bra and and black socks.
There were cats on the socks.
Purple cats and fuchsia and turquoise and orange and red.
I lay on my side,
my bottom on offer,
my small brown puckered butt hole prepared to be invaded.
And then I passed out.
No, alas, it wasn't some wild, abusive orgy cooked up by the fiend. For one thing, he would have been there, sitting in the corner in his chair, directing the action, becoming more aroused by the minute. He would have been planning it for months, down to the smallest detail, frustrated when circumstances he couldn't control caused changes or delays.
He hates being stymied.
He hates not being in control.
So, no.
No orgy this time.
Merely a colonoscopy.
The routine colonoscopy I should have had when I turned 50 but instead put off for 11 years because I was so traumatized around such things by my 20 years dealing with ex-hubby #2 and his Crohn's disease that my PTSD led me to jeopardize my own health because I kept conveniently forgetting to schedule the procedure.
Luckily, all went well.
There's was nothing for the doctor to comment on.
Not a thing.
Oh, and the cast of characters?
The other Jewish woman was the doctor.
She's even shorter than I am.
The 2 men were both yummy.
The white guy was the anesthesiologist.
Very cute.
I flirted with him.
The black guy had a prominent wedding ring.
He seemed quite yummy, too.
Warm and friendly and reassuring.
Good characteristics for a tech.
He sighed as we waited for the doctor.
Good biking day.
It was a pity to waste it indoors.
As for the fiend, he told me to be a good girl at the doctor's.
So I was a very good girl.
And there was nothing wrong.
Isn't that a nice story?
And I'm sure there will be another occasion when I am similarly vulnerable. But on that day, the fiend will have gathered a group of his cronies to enjoy the privilege of fucking my ass. I know he will. Because just the mention of it makes him crazy hot.
Of course, whether he'll let me tell you about it is a whole other story.
We'll see...
Monday, July 19, 2010
A week, a night, a gift - beaten, peed on, and treasured (8)
My Master thinks I'm very sexy. And beautiful. Very beautiful. I've learned to accept his view on the matter. One doesn't question a sadist's judgment, especially when one is naked and the sadist has a long, nasty, pointed strip of wood near to hand.
Besides, I'll never forget that tone of wonderment when he first saw me standing naked before him. "You're beautiful..." he said. It makes me wonder in a way about the people who have been serving him till now. But I probably shouldn't do that either.
So. I'm beautiful. I'm sexy. He's got this thing about my voice. And I am a talented and superbly creative cocksucker. But, as he points out, there are plenty of people who would happily suck his cock, and many (most) of those would satisfy much better than I do his need to inflict very serious pain.
But, as he often reminds me, I can offer him something that none of the rest can.
My mind.
So when I serve him, he wants the products of my mind. I write poetry for him, and then I recite for him, from memory, naked, vulnerable, pressed into the wall or kneeling before him, my hand replacing my mouth on his cock as that orifice is turned to service of a more vocal sort.
For the night we would be spending together at the hotel, he specifically assigned me to create a short piece, 4-6 lines, designed to arouse him. Poetry or prose, whichever seemed to fit best. And explicit. Very explicit. Which is a challenge for me. He didn't want a flood of atmospheric images. This was to be functional and pornographic. As the assignment was made on that previous Saturday, I had a week in which to compose and polish and memorize.
I am becoming very aroused as I write this... squirming, twitching, contracting... anything having to do with my Master's assignments arouses me. Being ordered. Being commanded. And never questioning - either of us - that I will obey.
I chose prose, and set to work, hampered by the limit on the length. It is good for me to be constrained. And I did work very hard to make it explicit. But of course, being me, being a poet, I could never write straight, dry porn - and I'm sure the sadist knew that. I doubt he would have wanted straight, dry porn from me.
So here is what I wrote, and revised, and trimmed, and ultimately committed to my inadequate memory, created based on my knowledge of my sadistic Master and of the things that excite him. And I would recite it for him on that magic night.
[All this has been prelude. At this point, I am somewhere on the highway. I suppose I should check into the hotel soon. Previous episodes can be found here: Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6 and Part 7.]
Besides, I'll never forget that tone of wonderment when he first saw me standing naked before him. "You're beautiful..." he said. It makes me wonder in a way about the people who have been serving him till now. But I probably shouldn't do that either.
So. I'm beautiful. I'm sexy. He's got this thing about my voice. And I am a talented and superbly creative cocksucker. But, as he points out, there are plenty of people who would happily suck his cock, and many (most) of those would satisfy much better than I do his need to inflict very serious pain.
But, as he often reminds me, I can offer him something that none of the rest can.
My mind.
So when I serve him, he wants the products of my mind. I write poetry for him, and then I recite for him, from memory, naked, vulnerable, pressed into the wall or kneeling before him, my hand replacing my mouth on his cock as that orifice is turned to service of a more vocal sort.
For the night we would be spending together at the hotel, he specifically assigned me to create a short piece, 4-6 lines, designed to arouse him. Poetry or prose, whichever seemed to fit best. And explicit. Very explicit. Which is a challenge for me. He didn't want a flood of atmospheric images. This was to be functional and pornographic. As the assignment was made on that previous Saturday, I had a week in which to compose and polish and memorize.
I am becoming very aroused as I write this... squirming, twitching, contracting... anything having to do with my Master's assignments arouses me. Being ordered. Being commanded. And never questioning - either of us - that I will obey.
I chose prose, and set to work, hampered by the limit on the length. It is good for me to be constrained. And I did work very hard to make it explicit. But of course, being me, being a poet, I could never write straight, dry porn - and I'm sure the sadist knew that. I doubt he would have wanted straight, dry porn from me.
So here is what I wrote, and revised, and trimmed, and ultimately committed to my inadequate memory, created based on my knowledge of my sadistic Master and of the things that excite him. And I would recite it for him on that magic night.
They fuck your little whore before your eyes. One by one, their cocks scrape her tonsils, batter her cervix, and explode her butthole until it oozes bloody, shit-stained cum. As a farewell gift, they surround her weeping, fetal heap and pump their dicks in unison, coating her in cataracts of cum. They leave, thanking you for the use of her holes. She drags herself to your chair and raises her tear-stained, pain-streaked face. “Please, my Lord…” You douse her head with urine as she sticks out her tongue to catch the sacred stream.
[All this has been prelude. At this point, I am somewhere on the highway. I suppose I should check into the hotel soon. Previous episodes can be found here: Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6 and Part 7.]
Friday, July 16, 2010
I'm feeling a cock moving in and out of me...
There has been a request for more smut. But coming as it did from jcn, it was phrased somewhat more delicately: "When do we get back to the salacious stuff?"
My Master says I should give you all more of what you want, and gave me permission to share the following. I wrote it last Saturday. I didn't mean it to be a story - a vignette, to be more accurate. I can't pretend that it's a fully developed story. All I meant to do was observe that I felt a cock moving in and out of me...
******************************************************************
I'm feeling a cock moving in and out of me, Sir... slowly, deliberately, the man taking his time, consciously feeling the heat, the kiss, the embrace of the moist velvet passage that is my pussy. I squeeze my muscles around him, ever aware of your order to enhance his pleasure in any way I can.
I am bent over the foot of the bed, a position that maximizes the separation of my openings from my greater identity. Nothing exists for him but the dance between his appendage and my receptor, his cock and whatever part of my body is at that moment stimulating its nerves.
I hear a groan. His pace has accelerated, just one notch, but enough with his utterance to signal the growth of his arousal. He plunges harder, his pelvis pushing against my butt hole, his balls slapping against my perineum. He reaches under me and cups my breasts, massaging them into my chest, desiring my own arousal as a way to incite his own. The stimulation of my tits telegraphs my cunt: CONTRACT.
I squeeze around him, tight as a fist - once, twice, and then again. He moans, and the tit massage changes to a series of nipple pinches followed by hard, rough twists. His actions surprise me, as until then he had shown no sign of wanting to hurt me. I push my ass back into him, doubling the force of his fucking. He releases my screaming nubs and, digging his nails into the tender flesh beneath my breasts, scratches tracks under each tit from the valley between them to the outer edges and up under my arms. If I could care about such things, I would realize that I would find the evidence the next day and would resist wearing a bra for a week thereafter.
His right hand moves up to my neck and pushes back against my throat, thrusting my head up. He could strangle me if he wished, but he is not like you, and is only stopping briefly on his way to the nape of my neck. He clutches my flowing hair in his fist, twists it around his hand, and jerks my head back. Swiftly, he bends over me and fastens his teeth into the back of my neck. Again, his bite isn't as hard as yours, lacking that sadistic drive, but he is drowning in testosterone and is only one step beyond a lion smelling a female in heat.
He maintains his hold while his cock thrusts so deep that he hits my cervix. Now I am the one who is grunting, moaning, releasing small cries of pain and surrender. Suddenly, he pushes me hard down on the bed and I am aware of the absence of his penis. Unconsciously, I cry out at the loss, and then scream as he impales my nearly virginal butt hole with his condomed but unlubed prick. K-Y jelly was included in the bedside display, but he is beyond thinking of such niceties now. He needed the tighter clutch of that tiny, puckered entrance, and the harder thrusts needed to fill it.
I scream two more times as he makes his way further and further in, screams resolving into grunts as tears slide from my eyes and down my nose, leaving a puddle on the patchwork quilt. Now he is spanking me as he fucks me, hard, deliberate slaps echoing the hard deliberate pistoning of his prick. More than ever I am nothing but a road to release. His entire being has contracted into his cock.
His rhythm has picked up and his grunts join my own. I moan "please... please..." not even begging for anything in particular, only responding to his urgency and now my own and the pain and all my body knows is that together we are going somewhere and oh please, let it be soon, and please, you are hurting me, and please, please, perhaps I will cum?
I don't.
He does.
The thrusting stops when he is deep within my ass, and I feel the semen pulsing up through his penis, I feel his penis pulsing within my anal pussy, I am holding my breath and drinking in his orgasm and feeling almost as much relief and release as he must be...
And then the air is driven out of me as he collapses on my back, pressing my belly into the bed.
We lie there for 5 minutes, sweaty and drained, our breathing slow and synchronizing as our bodies smile and relax. He strokes my hair and kisses the site of the bite on the back of my neck.
Finally, with a gentle slap to my right butt check, he rises off me. I sigh as his shrunken dick completes its withdrawal from my battered butt hole. I lie there, not moving, hearing him behind me, clothing his satisfied body and gathering his things. He says nothing. No praise, no thank you's, no request for a return visit. All such appreciations and arrangements will be dealt with through you.
I hear the door open as he heads out.
"Next!" he calls out.
My Master says I should give you all more of what you want, and gave me permission to share the following. I wrote it last Saturday. I didn't mean it to be a story - a vignette, to be more accurate. I can't pretend that it's a fully developed story. All I meant to do was observe that I felt a cock moving in and out of me...
******************************************************************
I'm feeling a cock moving in and out of me, Sir... slowly, deliberately, the man taking his time, consciously feeling the heat, the kiss, the embrace of the moist velvet passage that is my pussy. I squeeze my muscles around him, ever aware of your order to enhance his pleasure in any way I can.
I am bent over the foot of the bed, a position that maximizes the separation of my openings from my greater identity. Nothing exists for him but the dance between his appendage and my receptor, his cock and whatever part of my body is at that moment stimulating its nerves.
I hear a groan. His pace has accelerated, just one notch, but enough with his utterance to signal the growth of his arousal. He plunges harder, his pelvis pushing against my butt hole, his balls slapping against my perineum. He reaches under me and cups my breasts, massaging them into my chest, desiring my own arousal as a way to incite his own. The stimulation of my tits telegraphs my cunt: CONTRACT.
I squeeze around him, tight as a fist - once, twice, and then again. He moans, and the tit massage changes to a series of nipple pinches followed by hard, rough twists. His actions surprise me, as until then he had shown no sign of wanting to hurt me. I push my ass back into him, doubling the force of his fucking. He releases my screaming nubs and, digging his nails into the tender flesh beneath my breasts, scratches tracks under each tit from the valley between them to the outer edges and up under my arms. If I could care about such things, I would realize that I would find the evidence the next day and would resist wearing a bra for a week thereafter.
His right hand moves up to my neck and pushes back against my throat, thrusting my head up. He could strangle me if he wished, but he is not like you, and is only stopping briefly on his way to the nape of my neck. He clutches my flowing hair in his fist, twists it around his hand, and jerks my head back. Swiftly, he bends over me and fastens his teeth into the back of my neck. Again, his bite isn't as hard as yours, lacking that sadistic drive, but he is drowning in testosterone and is only one step beyond a lion smelling a female in heat.
He maintains his hold while his cock thrusts so deep that he hits my cervix. Now I am the one who is grunting, moaning, releasing small cries of pain and surrender. Suddenly, he pushes me hard down on the bed and I am aware of the absence of his penis. Unconsciously, I cry out at the loss, and then scream as he impales my nearly virginal butt hole with his condomed but unlubed prick. K-Y jelly was included in the bedside display, but he is beyond thinking of such niceties now. He needed the tighter clutch of that tiny, puckered entrance, and the harder thrusts needed to fill it.
I scream two more times as he makes his way further and further in, screams resolving into grunts as tears slide from my eyes and down my nose, leaving a puddle on the patchwork quilt. Now he is spanking me as he fucks me, hard, deliberate slaps echoing the hard deliberate pistoning of his prick. More than ever I am nothing but a road to release. His entire being has contracted into his cock.
His rhythm has picked up and his grunts join my own. I moan "please... please..." not even begging for anything in particular, only responding to his urgency and now my own and the pain and all my body knows is that together we are going somewhere and oh please, let it be soon, and please, you are hurting me, and please, please, perhaps I will cum?
I don't.
He does.
The thrusting stops when he is deep within my ass, and I feel the semen pulsing up through his penis, I feel his penis pulsing within my anal pussy, I am holding my breath and drinking in his orgasm and feeling almost as much relief and release as he must be...
And then the air is driven out of me as he collapses on my back, pressing my belly into the bed.
We lie there for 5 minutes, sweaty and drained, our breathing slow and synchronizing as our bodies smile and relax. He strokes my hair and kisses the site of the bite on the back of my neck.
Finally, with a gentle slap to my right butt check, he rises off me. I sigh as his shrunken dick completes its withdrawal from my battered butt hole. I lie there, not moving, hearing him behind me, clothing his satisfied body and gathering his things. He says nothing. No praise, no thank you's, no request for a return visit. All such appreciations and arrangements will be dealt with through you.
I hear the door open as he heads out.
"Next!" he calls out.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Want me
Do you think that you want me tonight?
I want you to want me tonight.
Think of me nakedly posing.
Think of me standing there,
kneeling there, whispering -
how will you use me tonight?
Think of my body tonight.
Maybe you'll spank me tonight.
Think of me screaming my suffering.
Think of me moaning
and writhing and begging.
How will you hurt me tonight?
Maybe you'll fuck me tonight.
Think of my pussy tonight.
Cum on my tongue as I suck you.
Think of my pain as
you batter my butt hole.
Think of the welts that
you'll leave on my bottom.
Think of my nipples
that beg to be tortured.
Think of my eyes
that show you my secrets.
Think of my mouth
that melts as I love you.
I'll be your good girl
tonight.
I want you to want me tonight.
Think of me nakedly posing.
Think of me standing there,
kneeling there, whispering -
how will you use me tonight?
Think of my body tonight.
Maybe you'll spank me tonight.
Think of me screaming my suffering.
Think of me moaning
and writhing and begging.
How will you hurt me tonight?
Maybe you'll fuck me tonight.
Think of my pussy tonight.
Cum on my tongue as I suck you.
Think of my pain as
you batter my butt hole.
Think of the welts that
you'll leave on my bottom.
Think of my nipples
that beg to be tortured.
Think of my eyes
that show you my secrets.
Think of my mouth
that melts as I love you.
I'll be your good girl
tonight.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
a piece of ass
holes.
i'm sensing my holes.
i am my holes.
open spaces.
tender places.
voids to be filled.
they beg for pain.
i'm needing pain.
i need it sharp.
relentless.
cutting.
thrashing.
spurring tears
i cry at your feet.
tear me down.
push me down.
make me drown
in submission,
in debasement
as you use me
as you share me
as you teach me
that i'm nothing
but yours.
i am yours.
and that's enough.
i'm sensing my holes.
i am my holes.
open spaces.
tender places.
voids to be filled.
they beg for pain.
i'm needing pain.
i need it sharp.
relentless.
cutting.
thrashing.
spurring tears
i cry at your feet.
tear me down.
push me down.
make me drown
in submission,
in debasement
as you use me
as you share me
as you teach me
that i'm nothing
but yours.
i am yours.
and that's enough.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Physical therapy
I had a hard day. News of a family medical crisis. It's serious and sad, and accompanied by the usual characteristic histrionics and dysfunctional dynamics.
I need cleansing.
I need catharsis.
I need a beating.
I've been e-mailing dominick today. If only he would come down, he could give me what I need. He could give me what he needs to administer. A long, slow, sadistic session, something wide and a cane descending again and again on my bound and vulnerable body. His fingers, his cock, my holes, after all these years, after all those fantasies, after all those e-mails, and the blushing pictures I took and sent him because he told me to and I do always want to please him.
I took the pictures according to his specifications. I am bent over, legs partly spread so he can see my lascivious labia hanging down and my puckered little brown ass hole, ever so tight and, at the time, quite virginal. And then in the second picture I have reached behind and buried the middle finger of my right hand in that little butt hole as far as I could drive it.
Just one little middle finger. Nothing compared to his lovely slender cock, which I still hope he will one day ram into me most energetically. I have a picture of his cock. Of his cock and of his belt. I keep hoping that he'll relent one day and agree to come down and acquaint me with both his cock and his belt.
I need a beating so that all I will know is the pain as his belt and his cane crash down on me and drive everything out. And then he will fuck me, pushing his pelvis against the welts he left across my reddened ass. And we will both cum, in a conflagration of combusted frustration and pain.
One day, dominick.
One day you will relent.
One day you will risk the disappointment of reality
and claim what has always been yours.
I need cleansing.
I need catharsis.
I need a beating.
I've been e-mailing dominick today. If only he would come down, he could give me what I need. He could give me what he needs to administer. A long, slow, sadistic session, something wide and a cane descending again and again on my bound and vulnerable body. His fingers, his cock, my holes, after all these years, after all those fantasies, after all those e-mails, and the blushing pictures I took and sent him because he told me to and I do always want to please him.
I took the pictures according to his specifications. I am bent over, legs partly spread so he can see my lascivious labia hanging down and my puckered little brown ass hole, ever so tight and, at the time, quite virginal. And then in the second picture I have reached behind and buried the middle finger of my right hand in that little butt hole as far as I could drive it.
Just one little middle finger. Nothing compared to his lovely slender cock, which I still hope he will one day ram into me most energetically. I have a picture of his cock. Of his cock and of his belt. I keep hoping that he'll relent one day and agree to come down and acquaint me with both his cock and his belt.
I need a beating so that all I will know is the pain as his belt and his cane crash down on me and drive everything out. And then he will fuck me, pushing his pelvis against the welts he left across my reddened ass. And we will both cum, in a conflagration of combusted frustration and pain.
One day, dominick.
One day you will relent.
One day you will risk the disappointment of reality
and claim what has always been yours.
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